


I want to hold your hand

by Moonstruckidiot



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Handholding, Hannibal Loves Will, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Will Loves Hannibal, post wotl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 14:25:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13683510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonstruckidiot/pseuds/Moonstruckidiot
Summary: Will has a nightmare, he goes in search of hannibal and needs to hold his hand (that is pretty much it, 2300 words of that)





	I want to hold your hand

**Author's Note:**

> as always no beta, please forgive my mistakes :-)

_A few millimetres more, that’s all Will needs. He’s just so fucking close. He’s stretched so tight, it feels like he’s fraying at the edges... no not fraying, tearing. Tearing is so much more painful and this, this is pain. Teeth grind, veins bulge and sweat cascades, every part of him is suffering, every part of him is reaching forward desperate to give more but it just isn’t enough._

_Around him everything is pitch black and silent, as silent as the grave but only if the dead feel rage. He is all sound, all fury, the hammering of his heart, the heaving of his breath, a scream clawing its way out of his throat._

_Just one more try. This time...please... for the love of God, please let it work this time._

_Will has nothing more to give, but he tries anyway. He feels his very cells distort, bend, grow, like something in a carnival hall of mirrors, and his hand reaches just that little bit further._

_Fingers as familiar to him as his own latch on. For the briefest of moments he feels joy and then ... then there is nothing. Just the briefest glimmer of finger tips before they are swallowed by darkness._

_No, no, no, no, he screams and screams and it is tearing him apart, shattering him._

 ....

Then Will is surging forward, pieces of his broken self coming back together into an imperfect whole.

He’s sitting in his bed the sheets, drenched and cold, cling to him. The room is quiet, a clock ticks, rain glances off window panes and Will gasps for breath.

His panic, his despair is still there, as bloody and as painful as an open wound.

_It was just a dream, it was a dream, just a dream._

He listens to the tick, tick, tick of his alarm clock, placed there to ground him when he wakes from his nightmares, and gradually his breathing slows and quietens. Relief is like a drug, relaxing his chest, unfurling his fingers, releasing his tensed muscles.

He is no stranger to vivid dreams and the havoc they cause. His jaw aches, his palms bear the impression of finger nails and his mind whispers, _what if he’s gone._

There’s a routine he should follow after he wakes, one agreed with Hannibal. Practical steps to connect him back to the world.

Instead he wraps his arms around himself and rocks to the slow beat of _what if he’s gone, what if he’s gone._ He can’t bear to move, he’s paralysed by fear, _what if he’s gone._

He doesn’t want to give in. He does know the difference between what is real and what is not, or at least that’s what he tells himself in the light of the day. In the dark, with the sound and colour of dreams still tangible he’s not so sure.

When the words, _what if he’s gone_ , become too loud, too terrifying, he finds himself stumbling through the dark. He needs to know, he must know.

He moves so fast his feet don’t seem to touch the ground, he all but flies to his Inamorato.

On a night they occupy two separate rooms but if ever two souls were conjoined it is they. Sometimes their physical selves seek separation but tonight it seem the opposite is true. Will’s hand slaps against the switch on the wall and lights up Hannibal’s room.

If you look close enough at the books and drawings you might catch a glimpse of the infamous Baltimore socialite but Hannibal has not sought to rebuild what he once was.

Whomever Hannibal is now he is not curled up in his bed. His eyes do not blink blearily and confused at the sudden apparition of Will. Instead the bed is made, the corners perfectly tucked in, the top sheet turned down. The room is pristine, it looks untouched, untouchable. Everything says Hannibal was never here.

The door frame feels solid to Will as he clings to it an anchor against the dread that, _he has gone_.

_They took him, can’t you remember, they took him, they took him._

The truth of those words turns his legs to Jelly and steals his breath away. They swamp him threatening to drag him to the floor and let his life bleed away.

.....

 

Will cannot remember his journey to the kitchen only that he has arrived there.

“Is everything alright Will.”

Will muses on the likelihood that he is still sitting on the floor upstairs and has entered his memory palace. Whether this is real or an hallucination is fine with him as long as he gets to see Hannibal. Just the sight of him is making his heart rate slow and his breathing steady.

Will watches as Hannibal turns off the hob and places the pan on a small black trivet. Hannibal watches Will back.

There is something truly eerie about Hannibal when he is motionless, his person suit drops away and the predator is revealed. He’s brain, instinct and reflexes. Will almost expects him to sniff the air for blood. He doesn’t, he smiles instead.

“You’re wondering if I am real aren’t you?”

“You’ve always been smoke,” replies Will as he allows himself to slump against the door frame. He swallows then closes his eyes. He makes a wish, a simple one, that Hannibal will still be there when he opens them.

“Hmm, that’s true.” Will hears the words, their richness and wickedness, their very Hannibalness. He wraps his arms around himself and keeps his eyes closed. If this is a dream then he dreads the moment it will dissolve into nothing, he wants to hold onto it for as long as he can.

“No matter how many times you open and close your eyelids I will still be here.”

“You promise,” asks Will, his voice cracking on ‘promise’.

“I do.” Hannibal’s promises are like the most powerful of spells, they cannot be broken.

Lashes flutter open and Will is staring down at a pair of shoes, a pair of brown leather lace ups. He remembers Hannibal picking them up from the rack in the supermarket and saying they were, ‘good enough.’ Will had almost choked on the boiled sweet he was sucking. He had not expected Hannibal Lecter, former socialite with a legendary and expensive fashion sense, to be so easy to please. The shoes weren’t just cheap but they were obviously so. A far cry from hand stitched Italian leather but ‘a shoe is a shoe’ or so he had been told.

Those lace ups were the first stitch in a person suit of a different kind. One which would not be flamboyant or remarkable but just normal, ordinary, run of the mill. Not that Hannibal could ever really be any of those things but it made Will smile that he would try. It was a good memory.

Will lifts his eyes up to meet Hannibal’s, like a plant under the rays of the sun he feels himself wanting to reach out he sways ever so slightly forward.

The first touch is a surprise. Hannibal’s hand slides across Will’s forearm. It feels warm and solid not something which could dissolve into nothing Hannibal’s other hand slips round Will’s back gathering him closer.

Hannibal’s chin rests amongst Will’s curls, Will’s forehead finds Hannibal’s collar bone. Nothing is said. The rise and fall of a chest and the sure, steady beat of a heart is all Will needs.

They stand like that for an eternity, breathing each other in. With every inhale Will finds comfort in Hannibal’s scent and with every exhale he releases a little fear. His hands, once freed from under his arms, find their way to the seams of Hannibal’s trouser pockets and run to and fro, to and fro. The repeated motion confirming that, yes, Hannibal is still there.  

When he is ready Will raises his head and Hannibal relaxes his hold. They still touch, hands caress hips, stroke arms and dance over shirt collars but they give each other enough space to think and to talk.

“You had the dream again,” says Hannibal.

Will swallows, “Yeah.” There was once a time he feared losing himself, now his greatest fear is losing Hannibal. He knows of course that it is one and the same thing, they are after all conjoined.

“It has the feel of prophecy to you,” says Hannibal a true believer in the infinite potential of Will’s mind.

Will huffs and rolls his eyes, “more like the feel of the old madness” he mumbles. Ever the down to earth foil to Hannibal’s flights of fancy.

Hannibal shakes his head and smiles, “If such a gift were to be bestowed on humanity I could think of no better recipient than you.”

No one has ever looked at Will like Hannibal does, as if there is no greater wonder in the entire universe. It is entirely disarming and all Will can do is sag against this man, this ridiculous man who is his anchor, his corrupter, his love.  

In contrast to his own sweat dampened ones the hand that takes hold of his is warm and dry. As fingers tangle with his own he remembers how, just a few hours earlier, those same finger tips had disappeared into darkness. A sob almost breaks from his throat.

Hannibal notices, of course he does, but he doesn’t voice his concern instead just gently squeezes Will hand.

“I think we should get you out of these wet things, don’t you,” he says.

Will nods as he burrows his head into the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt. As the veils of the dream world lift and dissipate, he knows none of it was real but nevertheless the anger and the despair still took its toll on his body. He is exhausted and ready to let Hannibal take charge for a little while.

Fingers clench involuntarily when Will feels the first movements to part. He doesn’t want to move, not really, he wants to cling on to Hannibal never let him go.

For all his romantic inclinations when administering care Hannibal is the essence of practicality, he simply removes one of Will’s hands from its place on his hip and turns to leave.

“Come Will,” he says.

Will is not cast adrift, Hannibal continues to hold his hand as he leads him out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

There was a time when Will hid his needs and vulnerabilities, behind dog hair, whiskey and a sharp edged tongue but those days are long gone. They have both bared their souls to each other and remade them in the image of the other leaving no space for embarrassment or denial. Will needs Hannibal it is as simple as that.

Their hands don’t part, not even when they enter Hannibal’s bedroom, not even when, one handed, Hannibal collects a bundle of towels from the bathroom. It’s the same when a pyjama top and bottom are selected from a chest of draws and a brush is picked up from a bedside table.

Will is overwhelmingly tired. It trickles through every follicle, every limb, every breath, when he is guided to the edge of the bed it is all he can do to not curl up and drift away surrounded by Hannibal’s scent. A hand on his cheek makes him blink and focus, he gives his head a little shake to dispel the cobwebs and looks up at Hannibal.

“Lets get you out of these first, hmm,” says Hannibal.

Will nods and looks down at his hand. It is still holding onto Hannibal’s, he hesitates he doesn’t want to let go.

“It will only take a moment,” says Hannibal sensing Will’s unease. He sits down on the bed close enough that their thighs touch.

Will drags his t shirt over his head and hands it to Hannibal who places it to one side then picks up a towel.

When Hannibal settles behind him Will can’t help but allow his head to fall back into the warmth which radiates off him. Almost child like in his pliancy he lets himself, with only the minimum of grumbling, be manoeuvre forward. The gap between them though is worth it just to feel Hannibal dab away the perspiration which clings to his curls, shoulders and the small of his back. Will shivers and it’s not just because of the cold.

Lifting his arms Will allows a pyjama top to be slipped over him before he is pulled into an embrace.  He is surrounded by the feel, smell and sound of Hannibal, the man is undeniably real. Tilting his head Will exposes his neck, he’s all but begging for a kiss. Lips drift over fragile skin and press against his jaw line but it’s not to be an amorous encounter.

“Put these on my love,” says Hannibal as he hands over the pair of pyjama bottoms.

Will slips off his shorts, letting them fall to the floor, then drags the dry bottoms up his legs. They are slightly too large for him, as is the top, but he likes the feel of them against his skin. He’s never seen the point in nice sleep wear, not for himself anyway, but he can’t help rub his hand over the material. It feels very nice, there are somethings no matter what person suit he wears Hannibal will not compromise on, and Will is glad for it.  

He chuckles to himself at the thought of his sweaty arse inhabiting Hannibal’s well kept pyjamas, he finds it funny but he’s not sure why, it must be the lack of sleep addling his mind. Before he can think too long on the matter he’s pulled back and over the bed until he’s lying on his side cuddled by Hannibal.

A hand caresses Will’s hip he takes hold of it bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

“You wont go out today will you,” he pleads quietly.

He feels Hannibal shift closer until their legs, hips and chests are perfectly moulded together.

“Of course not,” is whispered into the back of Will’s neck. He snuggles down into the covers locking Hannibal’s hand and arm into his own and drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> there are some fics which seem to write themselves and others which are dragged out of me as painfully as a tooth extraction, this was one of the latter. I don't think I quite managed to write the ending as well as I would have liked but I'm just glad to have it finished. I hope you enjoyed it. :)
> 
> I'm not sure if this takes places after WOTL but before SOTL or after SOTL and Will is plagued by nightmares of losing Hannibal again (but he need not worry in my world cos it wont happen). But I like the idea of Will having the gift of prophecy so i don't know. 
> 
> I generally write my Will sassy and strong and this Will is too but he's had a nasty nightmare and well he deserves some TLC as we all do from time to time.


End file.
